


Black and Blue Before Tonight

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Foreshadowing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That was maybe kind of dumb,” Seth admits, “but it was really, really fun.”  </p><p>The Shield in the space between <i>Payback</i> and the June 2 episode of <i>RAW</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black and Blue Before Tonight

"Dean's supposed to be the crazy one, you know." 

From his perch on the far side of the bed, Roman drives a fist into Seth's shoulder, minimal force and maximal affection. Seth sells the hit like they're still in front of the hot crowd, slumping heavy into Dean's side with an exaggerated grimace.

"Spill my beer and I'll show you 'unstable'," Dean grumbles, but he doesn't push him away. Without letting himself think about it too hard, he props his arm on the headboard, making room for Seth to tuck in closer. 

They fall quiet for a beat, watching the booth's slow-motion replay of Seth's earlier self cutting a graceful arc from the top of the 'tron into the middle of Evolution's huddle, sending HHH and Batista and Orton sprawling. 

“That was maybe kind of dumb,” Seth admits, “but it was really, really fun.” 

They saw some clips – the beginnings of the package that'll probably air on every broadcast until _Money in the Bank_ – backstage and during their _Fallout_ panel, but here in their hotel room, so many hours later that it's closer to dawn than midnight, is the first chance they've had to watch the whole match. And it was a good fucking match. Full of spots they'll use in a highlight reel someday, when they're arthritic old men, being inducted into the Hall of Fame. Or Roman and Seth, anyway. Dean has trouble picturing himself in a future distant enough to include retirement and people using the phrase “elder statesman” with straight faces. Twenty-eight is already so much older than he ever expected to be around to see. 

Some combination of hot shower and cold beer, the way Roman's triumphant running commentary fills the room and Seth's answering laughter vibrates through his own chest like a heavy bassline, leaves him feeling loose and easy. He's even only a little pissed off that he can't look at the laptop screen without “nine ninety-nine” popping unbidden into his head. 

“We did good tonight,” he says. On the screen, the three of them are in the center of the ring, breathing hard, soaked in sweat, and using each other to stay on their feet. “I feel good.”

“Yeah, I think this professional wrestling thing is going to work out for us.” Roman holds his bottle out and they all clink a toast. 

Cheesy, but whatever. The way Dean figures it, pounding so thoroughly on the Authority's enforcers entitles them to celebrate however they want, and Christ (and the internet) knows he's done dumber things after matches that mattered less. 

“I'm really proud of us,” Seth says. “This is the biggest thing I've done so far, and I'm glad it was with you guys.” He pauses for a deep breath, and something in his posture shifts, going tense and straightening out of the lazy press against Dean's side. “This whole time has been...” he trails off. 

Struggling for words is a new look on Seth. Roman can, and frequently does, say a lot in a single placid glance, and Dean sometimes finds he's got nothing but body language to scream with. Seth, though, has always had something to say and been able to make people listen, even when it's just going to make them want to shut him up with a clothesline. Or a kiss.

The look Roman's giving him over Seth's shoulder, all raised eyebrow and thoughtful frown, says he's weirded out too. When he shifts, trying to look casual and probably mostly failing, he finds Seth's dark eyes unexpectedly somber behind his glasses. 

“It's been really good,” he continues. “Special. And there's nobody else I would have wanted beside me through it. So, thank you.” 

He reaches out, snags Seth's bottle and holds it up to check the level. “You can't really be drunk on three-quarters of a beer.”

Seth shakes his head, that wordless _you're an asshole, Ambrose_ , more humor than heat, that he's perfected over the last few years, and reclaims the bottle, draining it with a long drink. “And before you ask: no, I'm not dying or going to Mexico to care for orphans. Just, if life happens to us, I wanted to know that I told you both at least once.”

“Not everyone needs to be drunk – or cutting a promo,” Roman adds, smiling pointedly at Dean, “to talk about how they feel. Some of us are okay with having feelings that don't end in blood. Or dancing.” He grins at the cheerful middle finger directed his way and wraps an arm around Seth's neck, part headlock and part sideways hug. “I'm happy we're doing this together, too.” 

“It's less saying it I want to be drunk for than hearing it.” It's mostly years of time on the mic that lets him keep the cringe off of his face. He never means to say this shit out loud, but it's so easy to slip with them. His damage just pours out of him sometimes.

He forces himself to take a casual pull on the last of his beer in the silence that follows and prays to be read as an asshole and not a charity case. He can practically hear them replaying footage from the indies in their heads, wondering how many jagged shards of Moxley are still rattling around in his chest. He braces himself for their pity, the wave of well-meant affirmations of his value or whatever that will surely suffocate him. 

“Whatever,” Roman eventually scoffs, “you totally love us, too.” 

He lets out the breath he's been holding and doesn't disagree. 

The lull that settles over them this time is light: all of them winding down toward sleep, none of them compelled to break the easy quiet. Seth digs a gentle elbow into Dean's ribs and crawls over his legs and out of the bed, policing all the empties as he goes. Roman extends his fist, like they've never left the ring; Dean bumps it with his own and is rewarded with a soft smile before Roman rises and crosses to stretch himself across the second bed. 

Dean powers down the laptop and sets it on the table where all their crap is stowed. He pulls his shirt over his head, tosses it in the general vicinity of his bag and slides beneath the sheets. The last of the night's adrenaline has leached away, and though he still feels good – fucking satisfied – it's also left him wrung out and achy, clumsy with the need for sleep. 

Seth moves through the room, turning lights off in his wake. He pauses in the space between the beds, and Dean watches him stop short of touching the crazy quilt of kendo stick bruises coloring up over Roman's back. “Need anything for those?” he asks.

“Revenge, maybe.”

“We'll give it back to them with interest,” Seth promises, skimming a hand down Roman's arm as he draws away. “Until then, it's time for all good boys – and all morally-flexible Dean Ambroses – to go to sleep.” 

“This the part where you tuck me in?” Dean asks, just to see if he can earn another scowl or eyeroll on the night. Even alone with these two – where no one needs or expects the Lunatic Fringe – 'pain in the ass' is his most comfortable fallback.

Seth just takes off his glasses and frowns, still more subdued than Dean likes. “Need to be sharp for Raw tomorrow.” 

“Tonight,” Roman says drowsily. 

“Tonight,” Seth amends, switching off the lamp and settling next to Dean in the darkness. It seems like a long time before he's still. In reality, it's probably only a couple of minutes that he's tossing and turning, his search for a comfortable position apparently coming up a bust. Still, Dean is not used to being the less fidgety person in any given situation, and it's going to be a real fucking shame for the fans if the Shield is one member short because he's been forced to smother his brother-in-arms with a pillow.

He turns onto his side and reaches into the couple inches of space between them, finds the curve of a shoulder and follows it up to the base of Seth's neck. He stiffens at first, almost a flinch, but when Dean works his fingers into the tight muscle beneath the loose knot of his hair and the neck of his t-shirt – the corny fucker is sleeping in the Shield shirt they sell at all the merch tables, and Dean makes a mental note to give him every kind of shit about it later – he gives a shaky hiss of an exhale and goes still. 

As he loosens up under Dean's touch, he moves lower, following the line of ink down Seth's back, working the heel of his hand into the hollow of his spine. He doesn't think Seth is actually asleep when he stops, but he's at least breathing easy, and Dean drifts off with his hand spanning the space between his shoulder blades. 

 

Dean has never been a sound sleeper. Too many edgy nights in too few safe beds as a kid, is what he's figured out, all those times when he can't stop himself from thinking about it. It's actually been easier on the road with Roman and Seth – calling him a brother and fighting at his side and mostly taking his bullshit in stride – steady and solid and never too far out of reach. 

Even so, it's not unusual to find himself awake long before their day requires it. What is strange is rolling onto his back to find that Seth has beaten him to it. He's leaning against the wall in the narrow oblong of warm light coming in where the edges of the curtains don't quite meet, his hair coming loose from its tie in a halo of black and yellow frizz, lower lip caught between his teeth in a frown, eyes narrowed at the screen of his cell. 

“Seth?” He speaks softly – both because his voice is still morning-rusty and because Roman is still out, and at least one of them should get to sleep while they still can – but Seth still startles at his voice. 

“Hey.” He gives a sheepish smile and ditches his phone. 

“Everything cool?” 

“I'm good.”

“Yeah? 'Cause this sleepless night bullshit is part of my gimmick. I got anything to worry about, Mr. Architect?” 

Whatever answer he expected, Seth's slouching further against the wall with a brittle smile is definitely not it. Something about the line of his shoulders, heavy and hunched, sets Dean on edge. His hands curl into and out of fists in the sheets. 

“Get over here,” he says, leaving no space to argue as he pulls back the cool sheets from Seth's side of the bed. There's still a little time before they have to get their asses in gear, start putting the miles between here and Indianapolis underneath their wheels; no reason Seth should spend it all the way over there, quietly freaking him out. 

“Getting bossy in your old age.” He smirks, but does pad obediently back over to the bed. 

Seth giving him shit – even half-hearted as that – is better. He knows what to do with that.

“Haven't you heard? Dean Ambrose is unpredictable.”

“Crazy bastard talks about himself in the third-person,” Seth agrees, punching his pillows back into shape. 

He snickers appreciatively and waits for Seth to settle. The room is quiet except for Roman's steady breathing, and with the soft light streaming in from the window and the sheets trapping his warmth and Seth's against the air-conditioned cool of the room, the moment is actually peaceful or some shit. The kind of calm Dean hasn't seen enough of to really trust and never knows what to do with, except maybe break it before somebody else takes it from him. 

“So, seriously, what the fuck?”

“'What the fuck?'” Seth parrots rolling onto his side. 

Dean drums his fingers against his own chest and resolutely ignores the urge to smooth down unruly bleached hair. He'd get a lot more credit for self-restraint if anyone knew how often he's stopped himself from putting his hands on Seth outside the ring. 

“You're being weird. And it's making me weird.” 

“Oh, no,” Seth protests, knocking a knee into his thigh, a light fist into his ribs. “I am not taking the rap for that one. You came to me this way.” 

That's not totally true. He might still have too much energy to burn and revert to being a shithead when he doesn't know what else to be, but Dean Ambrose, Hound of Justice (or whatever Cole's supposed to be calling them this week) isn't the same Dean Ambrose who first turned up in Florida determined to, among other things, fuck with Seth Rollins's title. If nothing else, he sleeps better, has cooler ring gear and a bigger sense of purpose. He hasn't changed into somebody who can say any of this shit out loud, though, so he lets it ride. 

Seth opens his fist and rests his palm on Dean's chest, splayed fingers following the curve of his ribs, arm curled over his stomach. It's no more skin on skin than they've had in any given match – probably less than either of them had with Orton over the last few hours – but now he's aware of every place they overlap. The moment stretches out between them again, slow and heavy and easier than Dean has ever believed that anything real is allowed to be. He lets himself – makes himself, whatever – just be still, his heart marking steady time under the warmth and weight of Seth's hand. 

It takes him so long to quit being a chickenshit and look Seth in the face that he expects him to have drifted off, so it's kind of a jolt to find a pair of melted-chocolate eyes studying him, careful and soft. Seth curls his fingers against his side in a light squeeze and keeps looking at him, thoughtful and thorough, like he's trying to catalog him for later. Like Dean is worth preserving. 

Since he was a dumb-ass kid, Dean's never let himself be afraid of anything that might happen in the ring, no matter what kind of stiff monster he's supposed to be facing or how much they're booked to make each other bleed. Now, though, everything in him is tensed, preparing to run from the warmth of Seth's gaze and the feeling – bright and fragile and fucking terrifying – that curls up under his ribs the longer he's caught in it. 

Before he can flee or lash out or do any of the other stupid shit he's fighting his impulse toward, Seth closes his eyes and heaves a sigh, sinking further into the pillow. His relief is replaced pretty quickly by worry. The whole Architect thing is mostly bullshit from the commentary team, but it's not totally pulled out of thin air. Seth is assured. For as long as Dean's been aware of him – even just from tapes of the indies – Seth has always known exactly how good he is and what he's capable of. Seeing him unaccountably rattled is really kind of fucking with Dean's head. 

“Did you sleep, like, at all?” he asks. Now that Seth's closed his eyes, Dean's apparently brave or something, studying his face in the steadily-brightening room, noting the darkness smudged up under his eyelashes. 

“Tried,” he murmurs, blinking slowly. 

“And being so close to all of this,” he indicates his own body with a sweeping gesture worthy of a game show hostess, “kept you from it? It's okay. I get that a lot.” 

“I bet you do, hot stuff.” Seth gives his chest a patronizing pat, his straight face breaking into a broad grin at the overcooked expression of deep personal affront Dean aims his way. 

“Really, though,” he says, not quite ready to let this drop, “what's your deal? You'd tell us if you were injured. Right?”

“Of course I would. I'm a little banged up, but not any worse than normal for pay-per-view.” 

“So...”

Seth gives a quiet chuckle. “You're like a dog with a bone tonight.” 

Dean prefers to think of himself as an alley cat – he's gotta work that into a promo one of these days – but he's going to let that slide. He also doesn't point out that “tonight” is now either hours ahead or hours behind them, because before he can speak, Seth surprises him by tipping from his side onto his belly. When he settles, it's with his arm hooked securely over Dean's chest and his head on Dean's pillow, tucked into the space above his good shoulder. 

“I think I just wasn't ready for the day to end,” he says softly. Dean can't see his face from this angle, but there's something raw in his voice. “I don't think I'm ready for everything to change yet.”

“Change can suck,” he agrees. “But it doesn't, like, have to.” He tilts his head, resting his cheek on Seth's hair. This thing between them, whatever it is, or might be if he doesn't let himself away run from it, is a change, and he doesn't exactly hate it. “Don't get modest on me now,” he continues. “You always knew the mid-card was never going to be the end of the line.” 

“And now The Authority knows it, too.” Seth's voice is hardly more than a whisper, a breath ghosting over Dean's shoulder. 

“Now, so will everyone else.” His right arm is basically pinned between them, but he reaches his left hand over to squeeze Seth's tense shoulder. “And it's not like you have to do it alone.” Seth doesn't reply, but his breath hitches in his chest in a way that he can't disguise given the way they're pressed together. “We're all in this together. If Roman were awake, he'd tell you to believe that.” 

“'If Roman were awake',” the exasperated rumble carries from the other bed, “he'd tell you that it's lucky for you both that he considers you family, and therefore might let you live even though you're keeping him up.”

“You don't need the sleep,” Dean reassures. “You're already beautiful.”

Roman's response is a snort of laughter, followed by a well-aimed pillow. Dean keeps the pillow and starts cutting a promo all about Roman's shiny hair. When Seth's shoulders start to shake this time, he's pretty sure it's a laugh. 

Roman springs from his bed and stalks over, the portrait of a man who'll put up with no more of Dean's shit-talking. Only, he rearranges the pillows instead of Dean's face and fits himself into the bed on Seth's other side. 

The bed's not really made for this many people, but they've been in tighter spots before. Roman pulls him in closer and they both curl around Seth like puppies or parentheses. When – too soon – the alarm on Roman's cell starts its insistent chiming, Dean wonders how far out of line they'd be to ignore it, stay here a few hours longer, and leave Evolution with their dicks in their hands in Indianapolis tonight. 

Pretty far, he figures, just based on the fact he's itching to do it. One of these days he's gonna have to quit self-destructing in the face of opportunity; might as well be today. He tilts his head and presses a light kiss onto Seth's hair, just where the bleached section blends back into the black. 

“No rest for the wicked or the weary,” he says, and rolls out of bed to face whatever the day throws at them.

**Author's Note:**

> Title snagged from Joel Plaskett Emergency's "Written All Over Me"


End file.
